Where Light Comes From Dark

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Runar was too young, deaf, and blind to know the struggle his mother was subjected to. He was alone and selfish in his wants, or so his one track line of thought would tell him, as he was the first to meet the world's cold air. He protested with mighty lungs, unhappy to be ripped from the comfort he had adjusted to in the past few weeks. Fortunately for everyone, he would be silenced quickly by a warm tongue and a belly of milk. Others soon lined him and the boy found comfort again before drifting in and out of sleep.

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Bitter. Oh so bitter, cold as the unknown - bitter as soot. Why am I cold?

When the air broke through, and warmth left all she'd known, Gunnhildr couldn't bring herself to do anything but wail. Dampened, meek paws shook over the soil as she rubbed against other small bodies in an attempts to find where she was - what she was. Grass stabbed her skin, sudden movement burned her head and the sound of other yipping pups were deafening, so could anyone blame her? Blame any of them? No, she begged for things to be back to how they were - warm and hidden from the bristling air or shocking noises. Yet in her puzzlement, the sightless youth could feel a bigger mass just before her. 

It felt familiar, larger than her own existence and still, Gunnhildr crawled closer to Home; a place, or thing she could not remember, for she had no memory of before. Now the mauve daughter could settle under the presence of Home, surrounded by bodies who'd she hoped would find the same comfort as she. 

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There was no cold, no hunger, no cries for attention as there were with her still-living siblings. She would never know what it was to feel pain. She would never know what it was to instinctually know her own limitations. In a way, it was a blessing, but the ways such affliction cursed her were much more numerous. Her mother knew, perhaps in the ways that a mother did, that this would be Katja's life, that she would carry the heritage of her father. But as any creature did, she would make the best of it or she wouldn't; fortunately for her, the tiny ball of squirming, unfeeling fur had her mother's fire, and that would aid her in a great many things in the days, months, years to come.

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When her mother whelped her previous litter, Rea had steered clear of the birthing hollow. This time, however, she hovered. There was an anxiety in her that day, a nervous tension woven deep throughout the very fibres of her being. When last the High Queen had brought life to Vanderfell, there'd been a medic present. Quicksilver had been a precise midwife, a skilled wolf who knew exactly what signs to look for and when to intervene. He wasn't around this time, and the mottled youth feared the possibilities that could occur in his absence. 

There was no telling where he and his pack had gone, for their frozen mountains no longer rose to the North. It was too late to go off in search for him, for nature waited for no one. Rea hovered, unusually afraid, while her dam laboured for long hours.

Babies cried, and still the Queen maintained her privacy. Rea knew better than to approach or stick her nose to the entrance, for she would surely lose it to Ira's fangs. She was the last wolf anyone would want to cross in these serious circumstances, so she waited.

And waited.

And waited.
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He said nothing as he came to greet their youngest. No words had been shared, as Hiero quickly pieced together what only silence could say. A part of her was thankful that she would never have to speak those words aloud. She was too tired to try as it was. He placed a comforting lick to her crown and quickly did what must be done, hopefully without the eyes of their eldest. Logic said this was the price they must pay. That it was inevitably a failure on both parents, but it would not take away the nagging feeling that the blame laid solely on her shoulders.

She hadn't been enough, and maybe she never could have...but whose to say things might not be different had she more skill or Quicksilver to aid. Herbs to save their fragile breath, or a diet better suited to their growth. Ira had never been great with her own vulnerability. Now was not the time to try, so she kept quiet and watched as her husband departed. There were still four. They were enough. And she would be sure to not fail them, as she had their siblings.

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Her father collected himself and at last pressed forward, stepping carefully into the High Queen's private whelping chamber. Rea lifted her muzzle and observed his movement with a curious stare, half expecting her mother to greet him with teeth. She blinked, aware of the odd tension that hung in the air around them, and waited with her ears pressed forward and bated breath.

A short time passed and the mottled leader appeared once more from the darkness of the hollow. He held something firm in his jaws and the young huntress gathered to her paws, her tail swaying softly at her hocks. Hieronymous did not look toward her but instead turned his face away as he veered aside and away out of sight.

Rea hovered, uncertain, though she was quick to realise that not all of her newest siblings had survived delivery. A morbid curiosity urged her to follow the High King but instead she chose to remain, lingering awkward until her father returned and joined her mother within the den. It was then she took her leave, trailing off into the night to roam with her thoughts for a while. 


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